


The Harder We Fall

by madsthenerdygirl



Series: Moneybond [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that emotion is weakness. He argues that it's strength.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harder We Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2013 and is now being crossposted here along with the rest of my work.

When he first gets the news it's like someone ripped out his stomach and threw it over the edge of a thirty-story building.

His poker face is the best--it has to be, when you're in this business--and Mallory doesn't suspect a thing is wrong. Other than the fact that one of their own has been taken, of course.

But something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, and until he fixes it his world will continue to be off-kilter and claustrophobic.

This isn't the first time it's happened. Not to her, but to those who have held her position within the bureau. She's had access to not only most aspects of the life of the head of MI-6 but has been fully briefed on ninety percent of the sanctioned missions ever since she took the post. She's a gold mine of information to those who can pry it from her, and he has no doubt that whoever has her will do whatever it takes to obtain it.

He has to get to her. If he reaches her before the bastards have tried anything, maybe he'll kill them painlessly.

Maybe.

After Mallory briefs him, he heads down to Q Department. The young whippersnapper is there, new gadgets ready to go, but his usual quips are silenced when he sees Bond's face. For all intents and purposes, Q is his best friend, and the tech whiz can read him alarmingly well.

"I thought so," the young man says quietly.

Bond only grunts in reply. He's not giving Q any more ammo than necessary.

"I'll have to tease you about this, you know I will," Q goes on, his voice soft so the others can't hear and know that the great James Bond is in emotional turmoil. "Once you've gotten her back safely."

He looks up and sees the certainty in the young man's eyes. Not hope or faith, but certainty. The boy believes in him, just as the other agents and the grunt workers and the women always do. It's blind belief for those who don't know the stupid risks he takes, or his personal demons, but Q is not blind. He's seen plenty. And yet the boy is still certain that if anyone can do it, it's Bond.

If only Bond shared his friend's certainty.

Prepped and ready to go, he sees no time to dally and heads out. The mission itself is relatively simple, and at least it's no damsel in distress he's retrieving. She can kick ass if she has to.

He avoids thinking of her name, careful to distance himself as much as he possibly can. This is a mission wherein she is the objective. He can't let his emotions cloud his judgment.

One of the first things that are taught to new recruits is that emotion is a weakness. Whether it's anger, grief, over-confidence or personal attachment, you have to maintain a cool logic and stay on your toes. And, of course, never trust anyone.

Bond has always been a firm subscriber to that rule, and it had served him well up until what he calls the Skyfall mission. There was too much emotion to be denied there. There had been his anger at M's decision, followed by a kind of weary acceptance. Her maternal attitude towards him, including her decision to send him back into the field before the tests deemed him fit. The childish hurt and betrayal that Silva felt, and his insistence that he and Bond were the same. Bond's own grief and despair as he felt the life leave the woman who had, for all intents and purposes, raised him in what he calls his second life (the first having ended when his parents perished).

Those emotions had fueled him, driven him, and, dare he say, strengthened him. Emotions were, like any part of the human consciousness, a tool. He'd taken the course on psychological manipulation just like every other recruit, and emotions played a large part in that. Emotions could use you, but you could also use them. They key was making sure you had control instead of the other way around.

He could control himself. He had to, for her sake. He remembered the last time he'd seen her, back at her apartment. It was theirs in truth but still hers in name. He never went back to his apartment, and everything he owned was at her place.

She'd been asleep, the deep, unfathomable black of night having faded away like a bruise until it was a washed-out dove gray, tinges of pink and yellow seeping into the edges. The sheets were tangled around her legs, her mascara giving her raccoon eyes, one arm flung out wildly.

She had looked so beautiful.

He'd dressed, kissed her temple, and slipped out, expecting to have lunch with her if he didn't see her before then.

She hadn't made it to MI-6 Headquarters.

He was going to get her back. He kept that picture of her firmly in his mind, cradling it. He let it be the drive behind his every decision, his every action.

And if he had to send a few people to meet their Maker, then so be it.

* * *

Bond paced outside of Mallory's office, his steps soft and methodical. How long was Mallory going to debrief her? He knew what she'd been through, he knew that she needed her rest, he knew–

The door opened and Mallory stepped out, followed by his secretary. She looked exhausted, circles under her eyes and a massive bruise on her left cheekbone. Her eyes softened as she spied Bond, a weary smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

"007 will escort you home, just in case," Mallory finished. Bond never could think of him as M in his mind, despite it being almost two years since his predecessor's death.

"That's very thoughtful," she replied. "Really, sir, I'm fine. I think Bond made short work of the men back there."

"All the same," Mallory insisted. "Get some rest--don't bother about coming in tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," she acquiesced.

Bond nodded to Mallory, who gave him a stern look that clearly dictated the agent take good care of his charge. Bond then approached her, placing his fingertips on the small of her back to lead her from the room. He remembered how he found her, battered and beaten, her hands trembling as they grasped for him. He had taken her into his arms without a second thought, holding her as tightly as he dared.

"Eve," he had whispered. She had pressed her head against his chest with a sigh, her fingers coming up to caress his jaw.

In that moment, he had felt reborn.

Now, he had to actively stop himself from reaching out for her, holding her, touching every bit of skin that he could get his hands on. The barely-there touch he had to maintain was torture.

The drive to the apartment was quick, her hand resting on his thigh as he drove. She kept staring out the window, her eyes unreadable. He never could read her like he could everyone else.

In fact, by the time they'd entered the apartment, she still hadn't said anything at all.

"Shall I draw you a bath?" He asked, running his eyes over her body. He knew there were bruises besides the ones on her cheek, even if he couldn't see them, and a warm bath was always his first step after injuries.

She seemed to consider this a moment, her eyes fixed on a distant spot. Then she turned, the corner of her mouth upturning as she clasped her hands together.

"If you'll join me," she said, her voice quiet but warm.

God, he loved this woman.

He climbed in first to allow her to settle between his legs, resting back against his chest with her head on his shoulder. He examined the nasty bruise on her right side and the five tiny finger-shaped ones on her left shoulder, ignoring her protests that she'd already been cleared by medical. Her knees were banged up as well and her right ankle was scraped but that was the end of her injuries. James Bond didn't usually invest in prayers but he sent up a small one of thanks at that moment.

After allowing her a moment to adjust he began to massage her shoulders, trying to work out the tension that had created vicious knots throughout her body. Eve gave a little moan of pleasure, sagging against him. He moved his hands down to her breasts, cupping them and squeezing gently.

"Is this all right?" He whispered, his lips on her ear.

Eve nodded, her head turning so that she could kiss his neck. "Yes," she said, the word hummed against his fluttering pulse.

He continued to knead her left breast while his finger circled her right nipple, winding tighter and tighter until he flicked it. Eve arched her back for a moment before sinking back down against him. He continued to work on her breasts for a few minutes, his touch firm but gentle, until she was completely relaxed against him. Only then did he move his hands lower. He rested one against her stomach, fingers spread soothingly, while the other trailed even lower.

At first he just pressed his hand against her mound, feeling the heat and the liquid leaking from her core. Eve gave a tiny moan and scraped her teeth along his neck before latching on with her lips, sucking intently. He took that as the answer he needed, and he began to drag a finger through her folds, searching until he found her clit. He circled it like he had her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Without warning he slipped a finger into her, working it in and out, gradually getting in up to the knuckle. Eve ground onto his hand, her nips and sucks becoming sloppier as he added a second and then a third finger, curling them slightly upwards as he worked her faster and faster. He pressed his thumb against her clit, not stopping the movement of his fingers. Eve let out a groan, panting as she pressed openmouthed kisses to his neck and jaw, her hands gripping his upper arms with enough force to bruise. He thrust inside of her once more and flicked her clit. Eve gave a strangled cry, her body stiffening and her hips lifting up, almost breaking the surface of the water. Her nails dug into his biceps, and he knew he'd have crescent-shaped marks there come the morning.

He didn't mind.

He worked her slowly down from her high, massaging her inner thighs and working his way back up, making sure there wasn't any residual tension in her muscles. Eve smiled lazily. Suddenly she sat up, turning in his arms so that she was straddling him, her hands on his shoulders. For the first time since entering the tub her eyes opened, gazing down at him with a staggering amount of warmth and affection.

She leaned forwards until their lips were brushing. "James," she whispered, as soft as a caress. She pressed their lips together but when he tried to slip his tongue in she disengaged. He wrapped his arms around her waist, anchoring her to him.

"I knew you'd come," she informed him, her voice filled with the same certainty that he had seen in Q's eyes earlier in the day. The difference was that Eve knew him. She'd seen him at his worst and his best, in every mood and state of mind, and yet her faith was stronger than everyone else's put together. She didn't believe in the indomitable 007. She didn't even believe in Mr. James Bond.

She believed in James, the James she was stupid enough to fall in love with and welcome into her home and heart.

He knew he'd fallen hard, and he knew there'd be consequences, but he'd never thought those consequences would be worth what he got in return. He never dreamed that he'd fall so hard he wouldn't even feel it. And he'd certainly never imagined that he'd end up with someone as wonderful and unique and pure as she. But, as they said--the harder the fall, the greater the mark.

This time, when they kissed, she let him use tongue.

It took them another half an hour to leave the tub, and that was only in order to make it to the bed, which they made excellent use of (and refused to leave) for the next twenty-four hours.

And maybe, if he were lucky, she'd let him give her some more pleasant bruises to replace the ones the (gleefully murdered) bastards had given her. After all, it was the strength of the emotion he felt for her--the one neither of them had yet dared to name--that had enabled him to bring her back to his arms where she belonged.


End file.
